The Oeuvre

by Greg James

  Dr Spice closed the tome and put it to one side, the warmth had gone out of the library but the darkness had not.

  Yes, cold like a tomb, he thought.

  A rustling, like old leaves, came from the far corner. A sound like slow, unsteady breathing from another. He got to his feet and, quickly, quietly, left the cellar.

  Chapter Three

  Dr Cargill could not sleep. He sat in his easy chair, nursing a glass, half-full with warmed brandy. His room was hot, fuggy and close. The heavy, cloying scents of potpourri and incense competing in the air, masking seamier odours.

  It had been a most fine and debaucherous evening. As bombs fell on London, he had been far away from it all, in The Club, situated below the stairs of a reputable brasserie. Both establishments were for gentlemen only. The Club, however, was known of by word-of-mouth alone. He had been inducted into its circle of regulars many years ago. Cargill had nodded his usual perfunctory greeting to the man on the door, pulling a face as he caught a whiff of the man’s pungent cologne. At least, he assumed it was cologne. Perhaps the staff ‘enjoyed’ the entertainments of The Club as much as its members did, though it mattered not a bit to him if this was indeed the case. As he divested himself of his coat and top hat, Cargill felt society’s chains slipping from him. Here, respectability could go hang, enjoyment was the order of the day, being true to thyself and no-one else was the norm in this place.

  The walls were decorated with explicit paintings from the Orient and grotesquely stylised starfish flowers. The interior was shrouded by gauzy smoke fumes and the patched seats were well-used, their cushions sinking in on themselves. Two slender attendants busied themselves mixing drinks behind the bar. Cargill recognised fellows of The Club that he had known for longer than he cared to remember, each one of them giving his rapt attention to one or more of the painted creatures that were as much a part of this scented grotto as the suggestive decorations and ornate furniture. The waifs wafted about the booths, reclining on chaise lounges. They were alluring shapes in the mist, under-dressed, appearing to be neither boy nor girl until you cornered one of them in the alcoves of The Club and had your way. Then, the nature of their sex would become very clear.

  The games you could play here – the flirting, the tickling, playing at being bride or brute, using these fair creatures as one wished. Playing those games that were denied by the peeping eyes and whispering mouths of the world above, a world that was being consumed by thunder and flame tonight.

  Let them burn, thought Cargill, let them all bloody burn.

  The Club was the one place in the world that soothed his heart and satisfied the desires strangled within it. He caught the eye of a passing waif, the light dancing in a nest of reddish-gold curls, a bruised slit of a mouth curved into a knowing smile. Cargill felt his pulse quicken. The waif took his hand and led him into a curtained alcove. The aftertaste of perfumed kisses lingered on his mouth. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips but the sweet, soft flavour remained. He was away from The Club and the livid delirium it induced, he thought, I need to stop going there. It will be the ruin of me. I need to get over these feelings I have. I know it’s wrong, deep down, I do. I will stop.

  Cargill hung his head, knowing the truth in his shuddering bones.

  “I will go again.”

  He knew he would not be able to resist. He was not strong. His father, Cecil Cargill, had always said so.

  “There’s nothing of a man about you, Phineas.”

  As a boy, he loathed horse-racing, the hunt and team sports. He recoiled in horror when his father tasked him with mucking out the stables, the smell of ordure revolted him to this day. Finding Cargill unwilling to follow instruction, his father had packed him off to London to live under the tutelage of Charles Havercourt, a virile family friend. Cecil Cargill prayed, night and day, that Charles would instil a sense of masculine identity into his son.

  It was Charles Havercourt who introduced Cargill to The Club. Virile and masculine as Charles appeared to be, Cecil had not realised this could be a convenient mask for a man who favoured men over women. Charles became a mentor to Cargill, showing him how to do many things. His erotic tutelage was exhaustive, a drawn-out and exquisite schedule of decadence and indulgence, until, one day, he left. A Fellow of The Club, Hinton, confided the truth to Cargill, that he was merely another conquest to Charles, that was all, nothing more. The only tenderness his sexual mentor knew was that of abraded skin. Hinton’s face was lined and haggard as he related the story, tainted contagious by guilt.

  As the truth sank in, Cargill watched the nightly performance at The Club. The scene was modelled on an Arabian brothel. In this setting, the androgynous playthings of The Club were dressed up in gaudy pantomime costumes. After a burlesque dance of disrobing, they began molesting and frigging each other using fingers, feathers, quick tongues and antiquated leather dildos; the latter ‘donated’ by senior members of The Club. Cargill watched what was unfolding before him and saw yet more of the terrible truth, of what had been done to him. Around him, all eyes were bright and wild with delight. Cargill felt as low and base as a brothel whore and he understood. He understood then that innocence was the purest form of abomination.

  His knuckles went white at the cordite touch of memory; he clenched the brandy glass hard and a crack went spidering through it until he eased his grip on it. He had spent months of his life waiting for Charles to reappear, every ring of the doorbell sent him scurrying to the front door. He had so wanted to embrace Charles, hold him close, forgive him. I wanted to say something else to him as well, Cargill thought. I love you.

  Charles never came.

  Night after night, he sat, peering through the smoke made by the Turkish pipes mounted on the tables of The Club, hoping for a glimpse of his lost love. Night after night, he was disappointed. Deep down, he knew he always would be. The word was that Charles travelled the world these days, doubtless fornicating his way through every dirty nook and foreign cranny he could find. Inside, Cargill cracked, much like the brandy glass in his hand. He went from the embrace of one waif to another, exciting himself by imagining that it was Charles touching him. Cargill did everything he could do with the powdered faerie-creatures, their spittle and his semen became the glue with which he sought to mend the wounds in his heart. Pursuits that even dear Charles warned him away from were explored. Blood was spilled. So were tears. Lots and lots of tears. None of them belonging to Cargill. He went further afield, to workhouses, to orphanages, paying for the use of the young bodies therein. But none of it, nothing he did, took the pain away.

  Outside, the birds were singing and the sky was deep blue, warning of approaching sunrise. He had been up for too long, once again. I will go and see Liz today, thought Cargill, after I finish my rounds at the hospital. She will make the strange horrors haunting my brain go away. We will have intercourse, I will lie in the arms of a normal, natural woman, and I will become good.

  And then, I will return to The Club.

  Cargill screwed his eyes shut, screaming inside, telling the unwanted thought to go away, begging the truth to leave him alone, alone with the comfort of lies. That was how he wanted to be. He swallowed the last of the brandy, tipping the glass on its side he eyed the dregs that ran down to pool together. The fluid movement of the alcohol reminded him of his shameful nocturnal emissions. He remembered the waif pressing its mouth close to his ear, whispering his name.

  “Cargill ... ”

  Cargill jumped. The brandy glass dropped, thumping to the carpet, amber spilling out, soaking in. There was someone in the room with him, some villain, a burglar. “Who’s there? Who are you?”

  Cargill felt the brandy stewing in his stomach.

  “Answer me, who are you?”

  “Cargill…..”

  “I said, who are you?”

  The shadows in the far corner parted and, drawing breath, his guest came into the light. Cargill’s bones went rigid, his muscles were stilled by the sight b
efore him. Its buboe-ridden body, weeping and bleeding. The peeling skin, uneasy on its face, quivering lips parting, showing jagged, ratty teeth. Perhaps this man, this creature, was an opium sot. Must have followed me home, hoping for some poppy powder. Then, Cargill looked into the eyes of the thing, saw how lightless they were, and understood there was nothing mortal or sane about what was facing him from across the room. The creature let a sibilant hissing slither out from between its mouldering teeth. The shadows of the study were swaying in a mesmerising snake-dance. His guest came towards him, ragged fingers slick with shit and corruption snagged in the wiry hair of his muttonchops, hauling Cargill across his desk, sending papers fluttering to the floor. Cargill’s nose was pressing into the face of his visitor, the soft matter of which puckered around his nose and then began to suckle on it. A terrible voice came from its lips, quiet and low, “I will give her to you, the one you want. You will have all you ever wished for. You will be clean again. If you make me well.”

  *

  It was about a week later and Dr Cargill was making his way down to the basement apartment of the London hospital.

  In his left hand, he held a hurricane lamp, lighting his way with its glow. The wards had been vacated, most of the nurses and VADs were gone. Patients, those who were able enough, sheltered in the nearby crypts during the raids. Those who could not be moved because of their injuries remained where they were, seasoned Sisters at their side. None of the Sisters would say a thing about his absence. It was their word against his. Dangerous as it was, raids were the best time for Cargill to check upon the well-being of the hospital’s guest.

  The guest was both uninvited and unofficial. The hospital board knew nothing about him, they could not be allowed to know. Permanent patients were forbidden. One of Cargill’s predecessors, Frederick Treves, had run afoul of that particular hospital policy. If not for the intervention of Queen Victoria herself, the last permanent patient at the London would have been sent back to the workhouse slum from which he came.

  Since the arrival of their uninvited guest, Cargill had visited the archives to view the remains and belongings of Joseph Merrick. His sack-like mask, his colossal hat and the beautiful model church he made. Sight of the last item always touched Cargill’s heart. The Elephant Man had been possessed of a nature capable of truly beautiful, poetic creation yet his form would send men and women fleeing from him in disgust. Cargill wondered if, in their current guest, he had found a similar such outcast. Moving his guest into Merrick’s empty apartments had been the perfect solution, it allowed him to be cared for without upsetting the wounded men or the hospital board.

  Cargill slipped his key into the door of the apartment. The door opened, he entered. The apartment was unlit. The guest was abnormally sensitive to light, particularly that of the sun. Cargill put his hurricane lamp down on the floor and negotiated his way around dressers, tables and chairs. The place was in an awful state, cluttered with unwanted furnishings and equipment. The guest did not seem to mind the mess. Cargill could not have the porters in to clear the apartment without arousing suspicion, without disturbing the guest.

  The guest was fascinating. He was suffering from a condition unrecorded. The notoriety of making such a discovery alone, concocting a cure for it - it was the stuff that Cargill’s dreams were made of.

  “Hello?”

  Silence in the darkness.

  “Are you there?”

  There was an atmosphere in the apartment, a charnel chill gnawing at his heart. He should be used to it by now. His guest had a presence that lingered in the air, catching in the back of your throat. The smell of the place did not help, rotting meat, pungent, sweet and rancid. A by-product of his guest’s peculiar condition, it assaulted him every time he changed the guest’s bandages, making his eyes water. A more nauseating job he had never undertaken as a professional doctor. He tried to persuade the guest to take baths, to wash himself in some way, but the mere mention of water sent the guest into a fury, hurling furniture, tearing at the walls, ripping curtains and cushions to shreds.

  Despite these quirks of temper, the strange man would make him famous, Cargill was certain of that. That was what he had to remember when his guest became difficult, patience was all that was needed, then his dreams would come true. All it cost him was the odd corpse; the men who didn’t make it, the wounded who expired en route in the ambulances. A few pound notes changed hands with the right people, no questions were asked and they were added to the list of the missing. Presumed drowned in the mud of the Somme or Passchendaele. In a war where the dead were numbering in the hundreds of thousands, who cared about a few strays?

  In the shadows of the apartment, he heard an echo of laughter.

  “You are there. How are you? Well, are you well? Did the last one, ah, do the trick?”

  “I am as well as can be expected.”

  “I will need to change your dressings.”

  “If you must. I hurt.”

  “In any particular place?”

  “All over. As always, Cargill. All over. Your corpses do me no good. Their flesh is rotten, it degenerates too soon. Their blood is bad.”

  “I do the best for you that I can.”

  “It is not good enough.”

  He could hear it coming. Its bandaged limbs, stiffened by excretion and pus, crackling. The hurricane lamp flared brilliantly for a moment then it went out. Cargill stifled a cry at the sight of glistening, nocturnal eyes, mere inches away from his face. It laughed at his discomfort before its tone became serious, “Ease my hurt, Cargill, as you said you would.”

  Cargill did as he was bidden.

  Afterwards, as he wound the last fresh bandage into place, the guest raised himself from the dining table that had become a make-shift operating table and Cargill saw how the polished mahogany had been scarred by bubbling scorches left by the touch of toxic flesh. The curious decomposition continued; Cargill wondered what more he could do to arrest the condition.

  Nothing he had tried so far was a lasting success, the bandages were an inadequate measure. Every time he changed them, ounces of stinking dead flesh came away from the guest’s body. Somehow, this man, this wonderful being, was able to become one with the dead, it was a thing miraculous and grotesque. When he consumed the bodies, he took something from them, some preservative element unknown to the medical profession that temporarily arrested this weird, rampant leprosy. The guest spoke, “I hurt still. My skin is sick, Cargill. I must have fresh meat to dress these soft bones. The dead do me no good. Open a window.”

  “What?” the doctor asked, uncomprehending.

  “I said, open a window.”

  “But I can’t. They’re locked. I haven’t got a key for them.”

  “I do not care. If you wish to obtain all that you desire, Cargill. Open a window for me. My hands are not capable enough for the task.”

  Cargill began to pick his way through the debris of the apartment. He winced as his shins banged on cruel outcrops of furniture. Fumbling at each of the locks in turn, he found one that was loose and snapped it from its mounting. Cargill removed the shade that covered the window, moonlight poured in. He unfastened it a crack. Cool air brushed over his fingers. It was a clear and cloudless night. There was a faint odour of burning from outside, always was on nights like this.

  Across the sky, a rumbling zeppelin came, blotting out the stars. The enemy vessel was illuminated from below, a white whale caught in a net of searchlights, he could see the darting motes of Tommy flyboys circling the leviathan’s belly.

  “It’s not safe.”

  “I said, open the window!”

  The window swung open.

  Behind him, Cargill heard a sigh. Musty air washed over him, followed by a rustling breeze. It did not stop, it quickened, becoming fierce. It became a shrieking black wind, beating at him, dozens upon dozens of barbed wings cutting into him, a murderous melee, stabbing, biting and tearing. Cargill fell, floundering onto the dusty carpet.

&
nbsp; Then, the black wind was gone. Shaking, Cargill got to his feet. Blood ran from the cuts on his face. He looked out through the open window at the black wind as it went wailing up into the sky. Where on earth had it come from?

  Cargill made his way back into the apartment.

  Where was the guest?

  “Hello? Are you hurt?”

  Cargill’s boot squelched in something. He bent to examine what was there. It was the tattered and torn remains of the guest’s sodden bandages.

  *

  Penny was sitting on her bedroom windowsill when she saw him. Mum and Dad didn’t care for taking cover with everyone else during raids. They said it was a lot of fuss about nothing, that they were too old for it. Sleeping on the hay under the railway arches was a cold and uncomfortable way to spend the night, and besides, no bombs had fallen near them yet, so why bother?

  They were safe enough here.

  Penny liked watching the raids, the zeppelins and Gotha bombers in the cat’s cradle of zigzagging searchlights, the rattle of Archie fire, the thunder of bombs. It was exciting. Mum would be angry at her for thinking such things but Penny was only five. Death was undiscovered country, a faraway place she did not even know existed. She saw him out of the corner of her eye, moving strangely through the deserted street below. He was dressed all in black, carrying a doctor’s medical bag in one hand. What did Dad say it was called? A Gladstone.

  The man in black had a top hat balanced on his head. Penny had been to see the moving pictures a few times with Mum. She remembered seeing them go wrong, the pictures going too fast or too slow, that was what this man was like, a film playing too fast and too slow. The way he moved, watching him made her eyes ache. He stopped, turned, looking up, he had seen her. She could not see his face.